In previous postings I have discussed the relationship between Zen and hokku (yes, there is one). Today I would like to talk briefly about where Zen and hokku differ.
First, Zen is more inclusive than hokku. Hokku deliberately restricts its subject matter, avoiding topics that trouble or obsess the mind. That is why hokku generally avoids (R. H. Blyth says “abhors”) “the sentimentality and romance and vulgarity which Zen will view with equanimity”
Zen views such things with equanimity, but ordinary people who have not reached that high level — meaning the people who write hokku — do not, are not yet able. That is why hokku avoids wars and pestilence and plagues and riots and disasters. It is done, again as Blyth says, because “we wish to forget them, and must do so if we are to live our short life in any sort of mental ease.” That is even more true of our modern and very stressful society. Hokku is a quiet refuge in the midst of the turmoils of life, and all the more valuable for being such.
Hokku, being a contemplative verse form (particularly as I teach it), consequently follows the old tradition of avoiding violence and sex and romance and all things that unduly disturb the mind. Instead, it turns our attention to the changing seasons and to Nature, treating humans as a part of, not apart from, Nature. That is the subject matter of hokku.
That is in great contrast to modern haiku, which generally has virtually unrestricted subject matter. In haiku one may write about iphones and digital TVs, about wars and rumors of wars, about social injustice issues and one’s new girlfriend or boyfriend and all the intimate details. Not so hokku.
That means there is a refreshing peace and purity to hokku.
Bashō expressed this peace and purity somewhat indirectly in an autumn hokku that is very culturally Japanese, but the principle behind it is universal:
The mind inclines toward
The four-and-a-half mat room.
That makes a rather awkward and obscure hokku in English until it is explained; what Bashō was saying is that as one feels autumn beginning, the mind feels the need for a withdrawal from “the world” into the peace of the small, spare, aesthetically tranquil little room of the hut in which the tea ceremony is performed, that peaceful, quiet, studied practice that was so important in traditional Japanese culture.
We could translate it in English as
The mind is drawn
To the teahouse.
That, however, does not achieve the feeling of the original, because a tea house in English does not convey the earthy, simple aesthetics of the small, grass-matted room in which the Japanese tea ceremony was performed.
So though we cannot use this hokku as a good model for writing in English because of its cultural difference and the need to explain it, we can nonetheless appreciate the desire expressed in it to be in keeping with the nature of autumn, which is a retiring from the busy world into silence and simplicity and a kind of inward contemplation.
That tells us a lot about hokku as compared to haiku. Modern haiku, in general, has lost this intimate connection with Nature, this simplicity and tendency toward contemplative spirituality, as it has evolved to encompass all kinds of subjects and emotions. But hokku still is what it was — a peaceful refuge in a troubled and stressful world.
That is why we all may feel, as autumn now begins, that our minds — our hearts (the word is the same for both in Japanese) — incline toward this peaceful refuge of hokku, while around us, all of Nature begins to fade and wither and decline and return to the root.